The Wanderer
by WinterDean
Summary: The apocalypse has hit without mercy. Left in the middle of nowhere, dirty, battered, bloodied, Dean carries on. (just a little drabble to combat stupid writer's block. sorry.)


Who was he? Who had he been? He'd been weak, that's for damn sure. But not anymore. No, these days he was a machine. A tank. And to think all it had taken was the loss of his only lifelines. His brother had been the first to fall. He'd gotten bit in the leg and three days later he was down for the count. Cas was next. The bastard. He died trying to redeem himself, and it hadn't done him a bit of good. They were all consigned to hell. That's it.

Dean laughed at the thought. Sam and Cas burning up in the fiery pit. Whipped, beaten, tortured. They had it coming. So did Dean. He knew it. That's why he fought so hard. That's why he ran. He wasn't going to hell. Not again.

He stopped to survey his surroundings. He was out in the open. That was problem number one. Problem number two? He was in the middle of nowhere with jack shit to survive. The nearest town was another 30 miles away and it was starting to get dark. The wind was kicking up dust clouds, filling his nose, mouth, lungs. Time to bunk down. He would chance a small fire. There weren't any Rotters in sight. Seems they'd been staying hidden lately. Maybe, if Dean was lucky, the infection would be less severe when he reached the next town.

Dinner was comprised of two charred lizards and a can of beer that tasted like piss-water more than anything. That's how he lived. That's how he liked it. He'd never been one to pick grit out of his wounds. Hell, he was born into a world of wolves. He was designed for this. This... running, fighting, surviving, this is home. This is his haven. Out in the barren nothingness, the smell of blood and dirt were his friends. Was he alone? Sure. Was he worried? Not a chance. He did better alone. He didn't have to think for everyone else. He thought for Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester only. That's not to say he didn't miss his brother. He did. He really did. But there came a point where Sam was beyond saving and only a hindrance. He had slowed Dean and Cas down. So Dean shot him. Dean shot his brother dead. It nearly destroyed him to do it, but Sammy had insisted.

"Do it, Dean. We'll both be better off. I'm sick of this shit, anyway."

Those were Sam's last words. A bullet to the head was what shut him up. The sad part is it didn't slow Dean down a bit. He'd spent no more than five minutes grieving before he and Cas moved on. Sam was probably decaying in that run down shack by now. That's what this all lead up to. Rotting away, skin falling off, teeth falling out, nails wearing away. That's what Dean had to look forward to.

He and Cas had walked for six more days. By pure luck they stumbled on an old firework stand. Their supply of water had run dangerously low. Sure, when they searched the place they found water, but they also found the owner of the place. He'd been bit ages ago and hadn't a shred of himself left. He was just as flesh-hungry as the rest of the Rotters. Dean and Cas had fought before reaching the stand. Cas wasn't pulling his weight. He had become heartless, careless, and had begun cutting corners. He didn't want to rest, he didn't want to eat, he just wanted to reach safety. Dean didn't like that. He'd spent his whole life on the run from monsters. He knew what it took to survive, and whatever bullshit Cas was pulling wasn't it. The last moments of Castiel's life were spent driving a crowbar through the gut of this old Rotter. Didn't kill the thing, just pissed it off. So it had ripped the angel in half. Just like that. Just ripped him in two. Dean was long gone by that time. He wasn't sticking around for his turn.

So everyone was dying around him. So what? He'd covered more ground alone in the past three days than he had in a week with Sam and Cas.

The fire crackled and the logs shifted, sending sparks into the sky. It was an angry, red sky. The sun was nothing but an orange sliver peeking over the horizon. Dean sighed. He leaned against his backpack, shutting his eyes. Five minute's rest ought to do it. That rest, however, ended before it began.

A shriek pierced the still air.

Dean was on his feet in a heartbeat. Three of them. Three Rotters. They were stumbling, loping towards him. He recognized one of them.

"Damn it, Sammy."

With teeth bared and knife in hand, Dean met his attackers with nothing but pure blood lust. This wasn't the end. Not now. Not today. He was a survivor. For Sammy. For Cas. He would survive.


End file.
